OGs: Deep Down (22 page)

“Holy shit, high-spin speed. I wanted to replace this machine; it was too loud and shook so much during the spin cycles it almost walked alone,” she whispered between gaspy breaths. “No way am I getting rid of this technological miracle. To hell with the new quiet ones.”

He chuckled. He so fucking agreed.

“I’ve been doing laundry once a week, but from now on, it’s going to be twice a week.”

Mike smirked. “I’ll make sure to be here.”

And she could bet on it.

* * * *

“Why do you call my mom Blondie?” Sam asked suddenly, bringing him back to the present. “Her hair is very black.”

He cleared his throat and yanked his brain out of the gutter. “Yes, it is. Very black and very pretty.” Kyra’s hair was astounding. Thick and glossy and so soft to the touch. Perfect around his fist. “When your mom was small, she loved to dress up. Whether she was a princess or a witch, she always wore a blonde wig.”

“Really?” Sam asked Kyra. “Why?”

Kyra shrugged. “Just liked it.”

“No one around Alden had such gorgeous black hair like your mom, and she didn’t want to make anyone jealous,” Mike explained.

The truth of the matter was, nine-year-old Kyra had been desperate to fit into a community that was mainly formed by Caucasian families, most of them from the north of Europe.

“I have her same hair,” Sam stated proudly.

“Yes, you do, baby girl.”

“Do you think that’s why Marcy doesn’t like me?”

Mike looked at the sulking girl. “She likes you, but she has been queen bee for a very long time. It’s just difficult to accept changes, you know?”

“Yes, I think I know,” she mumbled.

He pulled at his soaked shirt and turned to Kyra. “Ladies, is it okay if I take this off and dump it in your washing machine? It’s kind of sticky.”

“Let me get you something to wear,” Kyra offered.

Mike got the shirt off and, bunching it in his hand, dried himself with it.

“Did it hurt?” Sam asked, looking at the ink on his chest.

“A little. Some more than others. There are places that are more sensitive. Other times it’s the tattoo itself that hurts to get.”

“Like sad tattoos?”

Smart kid. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I like your tattoos.” Sam glanced once more at his chest, and then she turned to her mother. “Mom, can I get a tattoo?”

“No,” Kyra said, walking upstairs for the shirt.

“But—” Sam ran after her, shadowing her as they both climbed the stairs.

“Nope.”

“Josh has them too.”

“Nope.”

“When I turn sixteen?”

“In your dreams.”

“Come on. Seventeen?” Sam insisted. “No? Then I want a dog. And not the small kind that fits in a bag. I want a big one that…”

With that hilarious bargaining playing in the background, he headed for the utility room to throw the shirt in the machine. Luckily, there was a load of whites, so he dumped the shirt in and pushed the On button.

This was the first time the three of them were doing something together, and he really liked it. It felt so comfortable. And right. Damn scary too. Especially when he considered the temporary nature of their relationship.

He didn’t like the way Kyra surreptitiously pulled away when he moved too close to her or when they accidentally touched. He understood it, sure. Didn’t mean he had to like it. And he didn’t. At all.

As he passed the door to the garage, he remembered he was due a phone call. He was reaching for his cell when Sam came running with an Amantis tour shirt. XL. Not Kyra’s size.

“Sam, pizza is coming out of the oven,” Kyra hollered from the kitchen.

She started jumping and pulling at his hand. “Yay. Let’s go.”

“I’ll be right there, baby girl. I need to make a phone call, okay?”

Once he was alone, he texted Rachel, Wilma’s granddaughter, with the location of Kyra’s car and asked her to take a look and see what could be done.

In no time his cell buzzed.

U got it. Is this a stealth op?

Mike smiled.

Yep, not a word to any1. Bills my way.

He knew he could trust Rachel. Because of their grandmothers’ shenanigans, Rachel, Connor—Greta’s grandson—and he had spent a lot of time around each other.

His phone chimed again.

OK. Keep u informed. BTW, did u hear OGs r going to senior karaoke today? If they get into troubl, it’s your turn to bribe the sheriff.

Man, he so missed Connor. Hopefully, he would be back soon. Rach and Mike were seriously understaffed here.

Shaking his head, he put his phone back in his pocket and strode to the kitchen. Tomorrow he was going to call Rach and figure out a schedule; she could work on the Fiat the afternoons Kyra was at the gym. With any luck Kyra would never figure out how come her car wasn’t coughing like a ninety-year-old chain-smoker anymore.

“This is for you,” Sam said, pushing a plate to him as he approached the table. “Isn’t it the best pizza ever?”

He glanced at it and swallowed. Hard.

His pizza had sprouted some weird stuff that wasn’t there the last time he’d checked. Sam had sprinkled it with marshmallows, jelly beans, gummy bears, and some unidentifiable gooey things that had already half melted and meshed with the tomato and cheese. The sweet smell coming from his dinner, loaded with pepperoni and bacon, got his otherwise steel stomach to shrink.

He cleared his throat. “Where did those come from?”

“Decoration,” Sam explained. “Let’s share. My pizza is cooking. I promise I’ll give you a piece of mine.”

Kyra leaned into him and patted his chest. “Told you so. But don’t worry. I have Pepto for after.”

* * * *

Kyra stood on the porch, nervous, expectant, shuffling her feet. Mike was in front of her, standing on the lowest step. She was a grown-ass, twenty-eight-year-old, independent woman, yet she felt sixteen all over again, waiting for Mike to kiss her good night for the first time after a date. The difference was, this time it was her daughter inside, not her foster mother, Cynthia. The other difference was that twelve years ago, Mike hadn’t hesitated; he had enveloped her in his arms and kissed her. Now his hands were in his front pockets. She had no one to blame but herself; she’d set limits. Being affectionate with Mike was a boundary she was afraid to cross in front of Sam.

Her daughter, on the other hand, didn’t have any problem whatsoever with that. She came running from the house, dressed in her pajamas, and threw herself at him.

He folded her into his arms. “Hi, baby girl. Didn’t your mom send you upstairs to get ready for bed?”

“Wanted to say good night to you again,” she said, smacking a big kiss on his cheek. “Good night, Mike.”

He smiled. “Good night, baby girl.”

They’d eaten pizza and Sam’s all-time favorite dessert: ice cream with potato chips. Then they’d sat on the couch and watched movies. Mike had drawn the line at caramelized popcorn, but who could blame him. He’d been a trouper with everything else.

They both watched as Sam ran back upstairs, and then he turned to Kyra. “Your daughter is awesome, baby. She’s sweet and funny and amazing. That said, you need to tell her my grandmother is gluten intolerant or some shit like that. She’s survived a world war and several major disasters, but if Sam makes pizza for her, I’m afraid we’ll lose her.”

Kyra laughed softly. “You ate it.”

“Well, after the third bite my taste buds were entirely beyond salvation. I may have gotten some chemical imbalance too, because by the end of the second slice I thought the marshmallows kind of complemented the rest. Jelly beans and the other gooey things, though, have to go. Seriously.”

“So I guess you are a no-show for next Saturday’s pizza night, huh?”

Mike looked deep into her eyes. “You want me here, I’ll be here,” he whispered, hooking a finger through her belt hoop and bringing her closer to him.

Suddenly her throat was too dry, and she couldn’t choke words out. She nodded.

“Yes what?” he insisted.

“I want you here.”

“That’s my girl.” By now, he was so close she could feel his breath on her mouth. He leaned into her and brushed his lips with hers. “Good night, babe.”

She faltered but pushed forth, red like a frigging tomato by the feel of her face. “Are you coming back later on tonight? After Sam is asleep, I mean.”

Her voice was so low she wasn’t sure he’d heard.

The lust in his eyes said he did. Still, he didn’t answer.

“I want you here.”

“I’ll be here.”

And true to his word, Kyra woke up sometime in the night and ended up on all fours, screaming his name against her pillow.

Chapter Ten

Kyra was too sick to answer the doorbell. It rang once. Twice. By the third time she realized whoever was at her door was there to stay, and she was going to have to get up, or the racket was going to wake Sam. Disgruntled, she paused the show she was watching on TV and was struggling to her feet when her phone chimed. She would have ignored it, but it lay in front of her in the sofa table, so she took it and clicked the message open.

Open the damn door now or I’m tearing it down. Your choice.

Mike.

She’d told him in no uncertain terms over the phone that she didn’t want to see him today. Yet here he was.

With her hand on her stomach and standing slightly hunched over, she made her way to the entry.

She opened the front door, and there stood Mike, a big bag of peanut-butter cups and assorted chocolates dangling from his hand.

“About time, Blondie.”

“Sam is sleeping,” she reprimanded him.

“And that’s why I didn’t pound on the door and was about to pick your lock.”

She wanted to scowl at him, but she was too tired to summon the strength to be snippy. “What are you doing here?”

He reached for her and kissed her softly on her lips. “You have your period, and I remember the drill.”

His answer took her aback. “How do you…?”

“I’ve been fucking you for almost three weeks, babe. You were grumpy on the phone and dismissive. I know you. I lived with you for three years. I brought peanut-butter cups and chocolate. You need chocolate and lots of cuddling.”

She blinked fast, trying to keep at bay the tears that threatened. She could downplay her reaction and blame it on hormones, but she knew better. This was her Mike, harder around the edges, yes, but deep down, he still was her Mike, and he’d known she needed him.

She cleared her throat. “I may have outgrown this.”

He gave her a once-over. She tried standing straighter but failed. “Yeah, I can totally tell.” He stepped in and closed the door behind him. As he scanned the living room and eyed the table full of empty wrappers, his face hardened. “You have not only not outgrown it, but it’s gotten worse.”

Well, she hadn’t had him for these past years, hence the increase in chocolate needed. But she couldn’t tell him that, so she went for a half-truth.

“We’re two girls in the house now.”

“Baby, your daughter is way too young to have her period.”

“I don’t let Sam eat stuff with chocolate normally. You can’t imagine her with caffeine
and
sugar, but I had to come up with a good explanation for this fest. Once a month we have an all-out chocolate day, the both of us. This month it’s today.” She shrugged. “Chocolate helps.”

He lifted his brow. “Does it?”

No it didn’t. There was no amount of chocolate in this world able to substitute for him.

She didn’t answer, just started dragging her ass to the sofa. Her stomach and her lower back hurt too much for her to have this conversation standing.

“Come here,” he said as he scooped her up into his arms and walked to the sofa. “I know what you need.”

“I can walk,” she halfheartedly complained.

“Not from where I was standing.”

She kept her silence. After all, she was too tired, and he was too right.

He sat on the sofa and brushed his lips against hers. “Come on, you know the drill too. Let me give you what you need,” he said quietly, his tone soothing, reaching for her and unclasping her hands from around his neck.

He lay down on his side, taking her with him and rearranging her so that she lay with her back on his chest, her head resting on his arm. He curled his arm over her waist and opened his hand on her stomach, lightly massaging her tummy in small circles.

She held herself rigid for couple of seconds, and then her breath left her in a whoosh, tension seeping away from her body with every one of his gentle rubs.

She closed her eyes, biting her lower lip to stop it from trembling. God, how many times had she dreamed of this? Countless.

He kissed her head. “Better?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice not to break if she said something. It wasn’t better; it was much better. Better than she’d had in a very, very long time. Since him.

“Good. I couldn’t stay home knowing you were in pain. Actually, you should have called me yourself and not lied on the phone to get rid of me.”

Her chest clenched at his words. “Mike—”

“Turn the TV on, baby,” he cut her off, nuzzling the top of her head. “Although let me tell you I’m not keen on the South American soap opera marathon that awaits me. Talk about a way to numb your mind.”

She reached for the remote control. “No soap operas nowadays. I’ve updated it to
CSI
.”

He chuckled. “Now you’re talking, Blondie.”

She pushed the button, and
CSI
blared from the TV. She sighed and, before she could stop herself, burrowed deeper into him, placing her hand on top of his.

Feeling him lightly caressing her stomach soothed her. Always had. It would lull her into a kind of trance, all her muscles would relax, and after a while of watching shows, she would fall asleep. He’d done that for five years. During the two years they dated while she was still living at Cynthia’s, he would come for her, bring her to his place, and take care of her. She was not allowed to spend the night with him, so whenever he got her to calm down enough to fall asleep, he would bring her back.

“Glad you approve,” she said. “I know how much you suffered with the soap operas.”